He turned slowly, his face pale. “Who are you?”

Fenelon smiled. “Exactly what we seem, Captain. The commanding officer and crew of the submarine L’Alouette. Under special orders, but serving France, I assure you.”

“What do you want?” Duclos said.

“One of your passengers, Pierre Bouvier. I understand he is traveling with you as far as Madeira?”

Duclos's rage, hardly contained, flooded out in a roar of anger. “By God, I’ll see you in hell first! I’m still captain of this ship.”

Still leaning comfortably against the rail, Jacaud pulled the Liiger from his pocket and shot him neatly through the left leg. Duclos screamed as the heavy slug splintered his knee-cap and rolled over on the deck, face twisted in agony.

“To encourage the rest of you,” Jacaud said calmly. “Now get Bouvier up here.”

As Janvier turned, a quiet voice said: “No need, monsieur. He is here.”

The man who stepped out of the saloon companionway was well past middle age. Tall and thin with stooping shoulders, he had the angular bony face of the ascetic and thinning grey hair. He wore a raincoat over pyjamas and a small grey-haired woman clutched his arm fearfully. Behind them, two other passengers, clothes hastily pulled on, hesitated in the doorway.

“You are Pierre Bouvier?” Fenelon demanded.

“That is correct.”

Jacaud nodded to one of the sailors. “Bring him over here.”

The woman’s voice lifted at once, but Bouvier quietened her and allowed himself to be led forward. The sailor placed him with his back to the rail and went and stood beside Jacaud.

“What do you want with me?” Bouvier said.